Cross Conviction

Xiphosura Mode! (28-2)

With Sturm downed, Max dug his claws into the turf and began to buck his back feet, slashing blades of grass into the air as he howled triumphantly. "How's that for slow?! Didn't see that comin, did ya?!"

The swordsman gazed across the section of the field separating him from his opponent and spotted his saber pierced into the ground halfway between. While he was confident that he held the speed advantage to get to his weapon first, he knew that he'd most likely be unable to escape being bulldozed immediately afterward.

"Sturm!" cried Magnolia, quite disappointed with his performance thus far, "Don't you dare hold back against him! He's protected from head to toe, there is no excuse!"

Shakily returning to his feet, Sturm wiped a small trickle of blood from his bottom lip. Magnolia was right; there was no reason to pull his punches. If he didn't give this training exercise his all, not only would he have no chance of victory, but Max's new technique wouldn't be properly tested. For all of the self-professed calciumancer's confidence and growth, it would be for nothing if a potentially significant weakness was left unidentified.

Ever since I realized why Scharf was putting so much focus on unarmed combat, I've been looking for a way to use my abilities beyond brute force. I think I've always known that my aberrance would be the answer. Sturm thought to himself. It's been a while since I've tried this... and I have no reason to think it will work. Still, I have no reason not to give it another attempt, either.

Sturm planted his feet firmly into the ground, curled his arm upward, and clenched his fist tightly. Starting from his boots, a swift current of air rushed through the grass, carving a spiral pattern into the green beneath him. The wind then swirled upward, canvassing the swordsman's body in a turbulent veil of sheared grass and dead leaves.

Shocked by this development, Magnolia gasped, "Is that...?"

"It may be..." Gustavo replied, eyes narrowing as he observed the making of a small vortex.

Pauritsch remained silent, watching on with a knowing smile. Having reviewed the Third Hunter Team's files prior to taking over as their instructor, she was aware of Sturm's aberrance- the very same atmospheric influence that had made his father famous. For the young swordsman himself, however, dull pain building in his chest served as an unavoidable reminder of why he seldom relied on this power.

"That's new..." said Max, locking his hooked toe claws into the ground as a precaution. "Ya been holding out on us, buddy?"

Careful to keep his opponent in his broad field of vision, Sturm glanced at his strained, softly trembling fist. "It's not like that. This is hard on my body, and since I can only wield it with little effect, it's usually not worth the risk."

"So why now?" Max inquired suspiciously.

"Like you said... I need to improve too..."

Intrigued as he was by Sturm's unexpected expression of his father's storied capabilities, Max couldn't help but feel his own time in the spotlight was being overshadowed. While his comrades had been impressed by his new technique mere moments ago, they were now fixated solely on Sturm.

Jealousy boiling, Max was eager to trade blows once more. "Alright, well, ya can throw some leaves and shit around. That's cool and all, but it's gonna take more than that to bring me down now. So if ya got nothing else..."

Before Max could finish his sentence, Sturm sprang forward and, aided by a burst of wind beneath his heels, reached his sword in a fraction of a second. Tumbling across the grass, he pulled the blade from the turf, leaving Max to choke on his words. Succumbing to aggravation, Max lunged at the boy, swiping a heavy claw toward him, but found it blocked by his adversary's saber.